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flourishing a stethoscope; Ian as Mr. Universe.
    Wow! thought Lynn. What a guy!
    “He looks a lot of fun,” she said. “Why did you stop going out with him?”
    “Is that any of your business?”
    “No.”
    Karen shrugged and wandered over to the kettle, shaking it to make certain there was enough water before switching it on. “Sure you don’t want one?” she asked, opening the jar of Maxwell House.
    “Thanks, no,” said Lynn. “What’s Ian’s last name?”
    “Carew.”
    “And he’s still a student here?”
    “A medical student, yes. He’s in his second year.”
    “But you haven’t seen him?”
    “Not since I started seeing Tim.”
    “Not at all?”
    “I don’t know. Once, maybe.”
    “How did he feel about you and Dr. Fletcher? I mean …” Karen was laughing, shaking her head, reaching for another cigarette, all at the same time. “I know what you mean . Poor old Ian was so heartbroken at being chucked, he couldn’t cope. Especially when the other man was a qualified doctor and he was only a student. So he waited for him one night and tried to kill him: jealousy and revenge.”
    The kettle had begun to boil and Karen did nothing to switch it off. Lynn reached down past her and flicked up the switch, removing the plug safely, the way her mother had taught her.
    “It’s the sort of thing you see on a bad film on television,” Karen said, “late at night.”
    “Yes,” said Lynn. “Isn’t it?”
    She turned back towards the mirror. Right across the top were the pictures of the man she assumed to be Fletcher. Young, young for a doctor, Polaroids that had been taken there, in that room, those strange reflections from the flash sparkling at the center of his eyes. Bottom left was a strip from a photo booth, one they had sat in together, goofy faces, weird expressions, only in the last were they serious, kissing.
    “Have you been to see him?”
    “No. I phoned. They said this afternoon.” She glanced at her watch. “After two.” She spooned milk substitute into the mug of coffee and went back to the bed, stirring carefully. “I’m a bit frightened to see him, I suppose. After what’s happened to him.” She sipped, then drank. “What he’ll look like.”
    Does it matter? thought Lynn. And then, of course it does.
    “You didn’t notice anybody?” she asked. “Walking to meet him. Hanging around by the bridge.”
    “No one. Traffic. No one walking. Not that I saw.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Sure.”
    “This Ian,” Lynn said, nodding over towards the photographs as she stood, “someone will most likely talk to him.”
    “That’s ridiculous.”
    “Maybe. But I expect it will be done.” Lynn hesitated at the door. “If you do think of anything that might be important, give me a call.” She placed a card on the corner of the pillow. “Thank you for your time, I’ll see myself out.”
    Karen stood up but made no move towards the door. Lynn hurried down the stairs, remembering which step to beware, wondering why she had felt so hostile, offered the girl so little support. What combination had it been, she wondered, walking briskly up the street, that had made her withhold her sympathy? Why had she felt jealous and superior, the feelings hand in hand?

Seven
    Mid-morning. Graham Millington was sitting in a smoke-wreathed room in Walsall, watching a DI write names and dates on a white board, using his colored markers with a definite flourish. A detective sergeant stuck flags into a map of the Midlands at appropriate points and offered commentary in a flat Black Country accent. What was it the wife wanted me to pick up from the shops, Millington was thinking, mushrooms or aubergines? Millington had never been quite clear what it was you did with an aubergine. He copied information down into his notebook, glanced about him. Nine out of eleven smoking away as if their lives depended upon it. He tried to remember what he had heard on the radio earlier that week, research some